


An Open Letter

by AriWrote



Category: NG (Visual Novel)
Genre: Ban is the narrator tho, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Drinking, F/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, Vague, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23525419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriWrote/pseuds/AriWrote
Summary: Here’s the first rule you need to know when it comes to dealing with Mulan Rosé.Don’t ever let yourself get used to her.
Relationships: Ban Naomasa/Mulan Rosé
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	An Open Letter

**Author's Note:**

> it's three am and as my great great great grandmother never said: "That's the perfect time to start flexing your experimental writing muscles!"
> 
> I am sorry.

Here’s the first rule you need to know when it comes to dealing with Mulan Rosé.

Don’t ever let yourself get used to her. 

You’ll think it’s easy. You don’t even like her at first. You could list off all the ways she makes your blood boil. You’ll think that means you’re safe. 

Of course, realizing that’s what’s happening is the hard part. You’ll try your best to act like you don’t care, but it’ll sneak up on you. It’s insidious how she does it, and the worst part is that you don’t even think she realizes it.

One moment you’re casual partners. You team up here and there when your mutual supernatural-hunting acquaintance suggests it. You’re in the same town; you’re both skilled. The jobs not something one alone could do; it just makes sense.

You bicker, sure, but when you work together, less people die. Somehow you balance each other out. You keep her from testing her skills as an escape artist; she keeps you from seeing if the gambler’s luck works on your life. What’s a headache for a lower body count? 

So it keeps happening. You find yourselves in the same town a lot more. Or rather. You stop saying no to certain requests, start looking at the gas in your car and calculating just how far you can afford to drive. You make up excuses to yourself why you would go so far. Claim you just want to save more people and somehow working together does that. Makes you feel a bit better, even if there’s so many holes in that logic you can hear the wind whistling through it.

It’s when the spirits are gone and you’re still there that you start struggling for a better excuse. You wait for her to leave, and she does the same--both of you extending this out because neither of you are quite ready to say goodbye. Eventually one of you comes up with a bullshit excuse for why you’re still standing so close together. 

A celebratory drink becomes a ritual meet up at a bar. She scoffs at your cheap beer; you tease her about her wine the price of a small island. You linger even after the bartender cuts you both off. When the bar grows dark and you’re shoved out into the night air, you stand close together because it’s the only way to hear each other talk in the bustling cityscape. You pass a cigarette between each other; you’re cheap. You ignore the smudge of her lipstick that rubs off onto your lips.

Eventually, you’ll have to say goodbye and it’ll always be awkward. You make some joke that’s maybe a bit too honest, cover it up with the alcohol on your breath. When you meet up for some new spirit in a new town, you say thank you in the way you don’t mention how she leaned against your arm or how you know the red in her cheeks wasn’t just because of the glasses of wine in her system. 

Neither of you will take credit for the suggestion, brought about when it became clear you couldn’t keep standing in a secluded alley until the sun peeks up from the sky. You take one cab instead of two or lean against each for support as you stumble back to the room. She holds your hand steady as you fumble with the key card. You don’t remember whose hotel room you go back to first. Probably hers because she wouldn’t be caught dead at a motel room that costs less than the dress that ends up on the floor.

You’ll carry on like this for a long time. Covert as two hormonal teenagers who’ve just discovered what second base is. It would be embarrassing if any of the others were brave enough to point it out, but by the mercy of _something_ , even Mashita bites his tongue when Rosé blames a curling iron for the bright red mark underneath her ear.

You lie to each other constantly, pretending neither of you care, that this’ll be the last time. You boil it down to the basics, act like the math adds up to something that isn’t some domestic shit she’s never known and you lost when you signed the divorce papers. 

You pretend you don’t care when you wake up and find Rosé’s hair in your mouth, gone frizzy and out of control. Her mascara makes her look like a racoon; her lipstick is smudged nearly to her ear. You don’t snapshot the glare she sends your way when you extract yourself from her octopus arms and pull the curtains open. It doesn't sit next to a thousand other photos in a imaginary scrapbook that's waiting for you to fill it with more scenes just like this.

You’ll make too much coffee and pretend you don’t know the way she likes hers. 

She’ll look up at you when you hand her the mug, a spark in her eyes you know spells your doom.

And here’s the second rule to dealing with Mulan Rosé.

Don’t-- _under any circumstances_ \--let yourself fall in love.


End file.
